


Ghosts

by The_Last_Mockingbird9



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-28 20:23:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Last_Mockingbird9/pseuds/The_Last_Mockingbird9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People assured him the pain would dull with time, but two years later and his heart still feels like an open wound. Two years later and Leonette’s ghost still walks by his side through the twisting halls of Brightwater Keep, still sits in her plush green armchair by the fire in his solar, and still shares his bed every night...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Garlan

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know, I was reading the scene where Garlan dances with Sansa at her wedding, and this just sort of happened...
> 
> AU in which Sansa escaped King's Landing with the Tyrells instead of Petyr and married Willas.

It was two years ago almost to the day that his wife, his Leonette, his _everything_ , took her last, shaking breaths. It was two years ago that he clung to her lifeless body like a child at its mother skirts and sobbed, as the maesters tried to pull him free from her, tried to tell them there was nothing more to be done. People assured him the pain would dull with time, but two years later and his heart still feels like an open wound. Two years later and Leonette’s ghost still walks by his side through the twisting halls of Brightwater Keep, still sits in her plush green armchair by the fire in his solar, and still shares his bed every night...

He thought being in Highgarden instead of the castle they had been granted as their own during the War of the Five Kings would ease the ache of the cruel anniversary, but as his feet pull him toward the sept where he and Leonette had been wed years earlier, he suspects that was too much to hope for.

As he enters, a shock of copper hair bowed in front of the statue of the Mother and a short, quiet sob stop him in his tracks. He has only ever seen Sansa cry once, on the day they buried Willas, and even then she had only allowed a few quiet tears to fall, too busy comforting the others and her children to let herself mourn properly. Part of him wants to flee, unsure if he can handle seeing Sansa Stark as anything other than the eternally poised and unflappable Lady of Highgarden he has come to admire over the years. But another part of him finds the idea that she is still suffering like him, still broken over Willas’ death almost comforting.

The grayscale plague that ravaged the Southern and Northern Kingdoms during the war had stolen both their loves away from them. He wonders why he never sought out his goodsister after Leonette’s death, after his brother’s death, after his mother’s death. _She would have understood your pain. She would have understood._ She had been the last Stark once, just as he is now the last Tyrell. But perhaps the wounds had still been too raw then and the words too hard to find.

“Garlan?”

So wrapped up in his thoughts, he didn’t notice Sansa turn around. She is standing now, clad in a blue silk dress slashed with white lace that makes her look like the Maiden reborn.  Her eyes are red-rimmed, her face puffy, and her skin paler than he remembers, but her copper hair still shines like red gold in the afternoon sunlight pouring in through the stained glass windows. _It is almost unfair, how beautiful she is._

“I—I’m so sorry, my lady. I didn’t mean to disturb you—”

“You’re not!” she interjects, her voice echoing off the high ceiling. “Disturbing me, that is.”

When she stops in front of him, he’s suddenly struck by the urge to reach out and touch her hair. It is an absurd notion, one that reminds him of the few times he had woken up from a dream of Sansa’s hair and her long legs and her winter blue eyes while palming his cock through his smallclothes. It had filled him with such shame then, to dream of his brother’s wife, to dream of any woman other than his beautiful, perfect Leonette, and the memory of it fills him with shame even now.

“Are you—?” she begins but seems to think better of the question and falters. “No, I’m sure you’re not well,” she sighs. “I—I was saying a prayer for Willas, and for Leonette, and for you… I’m glad you came back, Garlan. I’ve missed you.”

The confession surprises him. In truth, he feels like he barely knows his goodsister. Only a month after her wedding, he left to fight a war. The grayscale plague struck just as the Reach finally defeated the Greyjoy forces, and Garlan had barely made it home in time to say goodbye to his wife, and too late to say goodbye to his mother and brother. But he does know how deeply Willas had loved her, knows it from the rambling letters his brother had written about his wife’s magnificent hair, and her lovely voice, and her kind heart, and her cleverness. He feels that he somehow knows her through those letters, at least.

“I’ve missed you too,” he finds himself saying. It is only a half lie and a kindly meant one at that. He _has_ thought of her during last two years, even longed to speak with her more than once, but he thinks perhaps a not so small part of him resented her for discovering her brothers and sister alive when he knew his family was never coming back. It takes seeing her in this moment, broken and hurting like him, to realize just how unfair that had been. “I—I’m sorry I didn’t visit until now. I shouldn’t have—” _I shouldn’t have abandoned you to run Highgarden and raise your son and daughter on your own. I shouldn’t have cut you off from the only Tyrell left, not with your true family so far away._ The words stick in his throat, and he realizes, somewhat stunned, that tears are now running down his cheeks.

With two long, delicate hands, she frames his face and brushes the moisture away with her thumbs. “None of it matters. You’re here now. Have you seen the children yet? I saw them playing with your babes earlier, but I wasn’t sure. Ned looks more like Willas every single day, and Jonquil loves animals, especially horses, just like him. They’ve grown so much since they last saw you.”

“They’re beautiful, Sansa,” he whispers. “Truly beautiful.” And this time it is the truth. Ned looks just like Willas with a head full of dark brown curls, a crooked smile, and bright hazel eyes, and he's sure Jonquil will grow up to be as striking as her mother.

“As are yours. Elyn looks so very much like Leonette.”

His eldest daughter is the perfect image of his late wife, with her long, dirty blonde hair and doughy brown eyes. Some days, when the pain is so bad and so impossibly fresh that he can barely muster the strength to get out of bed, he finds it hard to even look at his poor, beautiful Elyn. “Yes, I—she—Sansa, I _can’t_ ,” he stutters out, tearing himself away from her hands. “I just miss her so much,” he chokes, falling to his knees and trying to ignore the ghosts of a younger, happier man and his beaming wife walking down the aisle.

Sansa says nothing, but a moment later he feels two thin arms wrap around his waist. When she presses her cheek against his back, he can feel her own tears soaking through his doublet. “I don’t think we’ll ever stop missing them, Garlan,” she whispers. “Sometimes I feel like the world should have stopped after Willas died. Like all of Westeros and Essos and the others lands beyond the sea should’ve stopped and mourned him along with me. But the world kept moving. The sun still shined, the rain still fell… young people fell in love and married, children were born, lords and ladies fought over taxes and inheritances and whether the new fashions that came over with the Dragon Queen were appropriate. My children still needed a mother, and Highgarden still needed a Lady. The world kept on moving, Garlan, and it expected me to move with it, but I didn’t know how to live in a world without Willas. I'm still not sure I do…”

A fresh sob escapes his lips because _that_ is exactly how he has felt every day since Leonette died. Leaning back on his heels, he pulls Sansa closer, wrapping his large, calloused hands over hers and letting her rest her chin against his shoulder. For what could have minutes or hours, they sit there on the floor of the sept, looking up at the Mother and the Father and trying to muster the strength to just keep moving.

 

* * *

 

The next day, he worries being around Sansa will prove awkward after his breakdown, but a freckly little girl is soon at his door inviting him to Sansa’s solar to break his fast and when he arrives the Lady of Highgarden is grinning at him over a table of poached eggs and honey-drenched bread. And it’s such a pleasant change to the countless mornings he’s spent alone, brooding over his food and unable to eat that he smiles right back at her.

After, he shows his children around the castle, regaling them with the history of the Reach, House Tyrell, and Highgarden, but they break away from him before long, preferring the more exciting company of their cousins. He spends the rest of the day wandering his childhood home, running his fingers over the tree where Margaery and Loras had carved their names, lingering in the rose garden where he once caught Margaery fumbling around with one of Lord Chester’s sons, walking through the training yard where he and Willas used to spar and where his brother had dubbed him Garlan the Gallant so the other boys wouldn’t tease him for his weight. He thought it would hurt, to relive these childhood memories, but there’s a silly grin plastered to his face the entire time, and he almost feels like a child again.

And he desperately wants to share it all with someone, these beautiful memories and the secret places where he and his siblings used to spend their days. It’s that yearning that sends him running to Sansa before he can talk himself out of it. She looks at him like he’s sprouted an extra head when he tugs her out of her solar, assuring her that Lady Hewett can wait another day to complain about the lack of advantageous marriages available to her many sisters.

She giggles like a girl much younger than her years when he proudly presents her with a tiny, closed off lake on the outskirts of the castle’s grounds. He and Willas had discovered it when Loras was still a babe at their mother’s breast. It was here they learned to swim, and it was here where they hid when they were in trouble or when the baby simply wouldn’t stop crying.

“This was Willas’ favorite place too,” she tells him, tears brimming in her eyes and a genuine smile on her face. “You’re more like him than you think, you know.”

Garlan isn’t so sure about that, but he appreciates the sentiment. Willas had been tall and lean while Garlan is stocky with a tendency toward pudginess he only overcame by hours upon hours in the training yard. Willas had been thoughtful and patient, but Garlan is a man of action, a man who needs to be in the thick of the fight to feel useful. Willas loved poetry and politics while Garlan has always been drawn to military history and stories about great knights. But his older brother had been his best friend and his most trusted confidante for as long as he could remember.

“He brought me here a week after we were wed,” she continues. “Stripped down to his smallclothes right in front of me, right out in the open. I was scandalized.” Her laugh rings out, loud and clear and lovely. He revels in the sound and knows it would be sweet to make her laugh again.

“We used to go swimming here all the time, me and Willas. And we didn’t leave on our smallclothes when we did, my lady. Once Margaery and her friends stumbled upon us running around the place stark naked, and, gods, I thought the giggles would never cease. Mother was so cross with us.” And as he’s telling the story, he’s throwing off his doublet and pulling his trousers down.

Sansa's eyes go wide, and she mumbles something that sounds vaguely like, _just like his brother_ , but he’s launching himself into the water before he can hear the rest. She screeches as the residual splash soaks her fine green gown. “Garlan Tyrell!” she huffs, hands on her hips.

“Sansa Stark!” he mimics, before sticking out his tongue. “Doesn’t the Lady of Highgarden ever have any fun?”

“Oh, I can have fun!” she shouts back, and to his shock, she begins to unlace the back of her gown with a hilariously determined set to her jaw. And, honestly, Garlan had not even considered she’d have the gall to join him.

It’s not long until she’s down to just her thin shift and her smallclothes. It doesn’t particularly surprise him how lovely the curves of her body are or how glorious her long legs look free of her gown, but when she reaches up and pulls out a pin to let her hair cascade freely around shoulders, so long it covers her breasts, he suddenly can’t breathe. His heart is pounding against his ribcage and his cock is growing traitorously harder by the second, but he can’t bring himself to look away.

Instead of jumping, Sansa touches a cautious foot to the water. “It’s cold,” she complains, wrapping her arms around her small waist. “And you’re absolutely mad.”

“I never took you for a craven, my lady!” Garlan calls out.

That earns him a positively withering glare, but soon she’s wading into the water, making the bottom of her shift cling to her shins. “Damn Tyrells. All madder than the next,” she mutters.

"Don't forget you're one of us now, my lady," he teases.

The further in she goes, the more he begins to fear that she will get _too_ close, that for some reason she’ll press against him and feel his disgraceful arousal. But when she’s in up to her shoulders, just an arm’s length away from him, she makes no move to reach out to him. Instead, she flings her arms against the water and sends a wave of it splashing across his face.

He makes an unintelligible noise of surprise and chokes on the pond water. “ _You_ —I can’t believe you did that!” he exclaims.

“No one calls me a craven,” she says with a devilish little smirk.

He answers with a splash of his own, and soon they’re jumping around the water in their smallclothes, laughing and dodging splashes like a couple of lunatics. And it’s almost like he is the man he was before the war again, playful and quick to laugh without the weight of the world on his shoulders. It’s almost like he’s happy.

 

* * *

 

In the weeks that follow, he and Sansa develop something of a routine. In the morning, they break their fasts together in her solar. They talk over what needs to be done that day while poring over inventories and seemingly endless letters from lords and ladies across Westeros. The enormous sum of work that goes into being the Warden of the Reach makes him hate himself more than he already does for abandoning his brother’s wife to do this on her own for so long. For gods’ sake, he is the true _Tyrell_ , not her. But the one time he tries to apologize, she declares him ridiculous and gives him such a genuine smile that he actually believes she had never thought to be angry with him for it.

During their days, they each have their own separate duties—meeting with quarrelsome lords, taking inventories, counting the coppers, conferring with the maester and their other advisors. Sometimes he even trains the lads in the yard and assists the Master of Arms with his duties. It seems there is no end to the work, and he embraces every moment of it. For the first time in two years, he feels useful and active and _alive_. For the first time in two years, he can go entire hours without seeing Leonette’s ghost following him in the shadows.

In the early evenings, before the sun has set, they meet on the back lawns of the castle. Sansa works on embroideries or the high harp or singing with Elyn and Leonora while he teaches Ned, Loras, and a very enthusiastic Jonquil ( _she’s just like my wild little sister,_ Sansa had laughed) sword fighting. The calmness of their afternoon gatherings invariably breaks before long, and the kids will run off to play damsels and knights or hide and seek in the gardens. He and Sansa sometimes will laugh and run with them, and it is in those moments he begins to remember what it is like to have a true family.

After dinner, he always seems to end up in Sansa’s solar again, seated across from her in front of the fireplace in the tall, dark green chair that had once belonged to his brother. Sometimes one or two of the children who can’t sleep join them, asking for stories— _Aunt_ _Sansa always has the best stories_ , Elyn informs him. But more often than not, they sit in a contented silence, reading books or writing letters or just simply watching the embers of the fire burn. Every now and then he thinks back on how lonely he had been at Brightwater Keep, and he isn’t sure he’ll ever be ready to let these evenings by the fire with Sansa go.

He has grown so accustomed to their quiet evenings, that he nearly jumps out of his skin when Sansa says, “ _Garlan_ ,” one night.

“Yes?” His head snaps up from the book of Westerosi military history on his lap. “Is everything ok?”

“Everything is fine,” she claims, but she’s twiddling her thumbs in her lap and looking absolutely anywhere in the room but at him. “I just—I only—” She pauses, biting the edge of her lip in a way that only serves to remind just how lovely and pink her lips are.

“Just tell me,” he says, trying to banish that thought and keep his eyes off her mouth. “Sansa, whatever it is—”

“I don’t want you to leave,” she declares before he can finish, meeting his eyes with a ferocity she usually reserves for disobedient lords. “I understand that you are the Lord of Brightwater Keep and that you have responsibilities, but I thought—I thought, perhaps, your castellan could handle things for now and that—that you could stay here, in Highgarden, until Ned grows up and becomes Lord Tyrell in true. My kids adore you, you know. And I can do this on my own. I’ve been doing this on my own for near two years now, but I just—I just don’t _want_ to anymore.” There are tears clinging to her long lashes as she speaks, but she’s doing an admirable job of not allowing them to fall. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

_I don’t want to be alone anymore._ The admission breaks his heart and sews it back together again all at once. Because he knows how hard that must have been for Sansa to say that and how terrified she must be that he will turn his back on her again. But he also knows he has been wanting to say the same thing since the day he arrived and that he will fight to hold on to whatever it is he now has with Sansa and their children.

“I’m not going anywhere, Sansa. If you’ll have me, I’ll stay.”

There are so many more things he wants to say. He wants to thank her for being the mother figure his girls and Loras need. He wants to thank her for pulling him out of his despair and keeping the ghosts that he feared would always haunt him at bay. He wants to thank her for giving his life purpose again. But before he can say any of that, he is somehow on his feet, hands clutching to the arms of her chair and lips planted firmly against hers. And even as he’s kissing her breathless and combing his fingers through hair—and seven hells, it’s as soft as silk, just how he thought it would be—he has absolutely no idea how it happened.

When she makes a noise—a soft squeak he can barely hear over the crackling of the fire—he abruptly crashes back into reality and realizes just where he is, kissing his brother’s wife, not Leonette, in his brother’s solar, not his and Leonette’s, in his brother’s castle, not his, not the second son’s.

“Oh, gods, Sansa, I—I’m so sorry.” He stumbles away from her, tripping over his own stupid feet and sending a small table and its contents crashing over behind him. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I don’t—” But there are no words to excuse what he just did, and he’s suddenly so dreadfully afraid that she’s going to take back what she said and ask him to leave Highgarden that he turns and runs from her before she can say a word.

 

* * *

 

Hours pass, but he can’t bring himself to sleep or stop crying or even lift his face from where he buried it in his pillow. He feels like a craven child, fleeing from a mistake and hiding from the consequences in his room.

_I can’t believe I just left her there._ He keeps seeing her, eyes wide and mouth half open with swollen lips, and he thinks that he deserves to be sent back to the ghosts and empty halls of Brightwater Keep for what he’s done.

He doesn’t hear the door open, but it must have, because the room is suddenly filled with candlelight, and he feels a hand tentatively tracing the length of his spine. For a moment he thinks it must be one of the ghosts, but he can feel the warmth of the person behind him and there’s something far too _solid_ about the touch for it to be his imagination playing tricks on him.

The bed sinks beside him, but he still can’t bring himself to look up, because he already knows whom it is, and he’s still afraid she’s going to send him away. “Garlan, you didn’t need to run from me.” Her voice is as soft as a lover’s caress against his ear, and it makes his entire body shudder. “I’m not cross with you.”

“I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t have… It was wrong.” His voice is so muffled by the pillow that he isn’t sure if she hears him. He isn’t sure that he wants her to have heard him.

She doesn’t answer, but she does press a trembling hand against his curls, threading her fingers through them. When her nails rake lightly over his scalp, he can’t suppress the moan that leaves his lips. He finds himself remembering just how sweet Sansa’s lips tasted, how soft her hair was, how her body looked in her sodden, translucent shift, and how her breasts felt pressed against his back that day in the sept. And, seven hells, it’s been so long since a woman has touched him that he’s already hard and pushing his hips into the bed, anxious for friction like some green boy.

When she slips into his bed and presses the length of her body against his and whispers _please_ against the skin just under his ear, he knows he’s lost. In seconds, he’s up and tearing at the laces of her dress like a madman, like she and this feeling could be stolen from him at any moment. She mimics his every frantic rip and tear, divesting him of his shirt and breeches and smallclothes until they’re both locked together, red and panting for air, and wearing nothing but their own skins.

It is only then he finally pauses and properly looks at the girl now pinned underneath him. The candlelight is dancing magnificently in her hair, bringing out shades of red and gold he had never noticed before. Her skin is lily white and impossibly soft underneath his hands, and her blue eyes dark with desire.

When he moves a hand to touch her hair again, she catches it and clutches tight. “Please, Garlan, leave the candle.”

And he understands what she fears, understands that she doesn’t want him seeing someone else while they do whatever it is they’re about to do. It wouldn’t be fair, not to Sansa or Leonette or Willas, for him to ignore this and pretend it’s something else. But even if he wanted to imagine her as Leonette, he doesn’t think he could. She’s sharp where Leonette was soft, hipbones and ribs pushing out against her skin. Her legs are too long and her breasts too large, and she feels all wrong under his hands.

“I only wanted to touch your hair,” he says, giving her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. But instead of releasing his hand, she pulls it down and presses it firmly against one of her breasts. He groans at the feeling and the way it fills his hand. He presses his face into her neck so he can breathe in the scent of her as he draws slow, agonizing circles over her hardening nipple. He presses open-mouthed kisses against her neck, as his other hand maintains its near bruising grip on her hip.

And this is wrong. She smells wrong, like lemons and honey instead of lavender. And the sounds she makes are all wrong, little growls instead of quiet, dainty giggles and breathy moans. But her hands are tracing the contours of his body, lingering on the muscles of his arms and his chest and down his back, and she’s nipping at his ear, and it all feels so fucking good that he doesn’t care.

When he lifts his head to take her other nipple in his mouth and swirls his tongue and sucks, she lets out a growl that sets his heart racing. She shifts and writhes underneath him, rubbing her thigh against cock just enough to make him call out. That friction alone feels so good it hurts. It’s been so long, and judging by the way she’s squirming beneath him, it’s been just as long for her. He wants so badly to make her feel good, to focus completely on her needs and bring her to climax at least once before seeking his own gratification.

But it’s then he realizes that he has no idea what she likes, what will turn those little growls of hers into full-blown howls. Leonette had liked when he used his mouth, but would Sansa? Would she think him depraved if he tried it? He hasn’t been this unsure of himself around a woman since he was a boy, since his wedding night, and it leaves him paralyzed and breathless above her.

When she grabs at his hips, he thinks for one terrifying moment that she means to push him away from her and put an end to this sweet madness. But instead of pushing away, she urges him forward and before he entirely realizes what’s happening he’s sheathed inside her and shouting out her name so loudly he thinks the entire castle must have heard him. And, gods, she feels so wet, and hot, and tight around him that he can hardly breathe, and it takes all the willpower he has not to start thrusting wildly into her.

He had almost forgotten how amazing it feels to be with a woman like this. His blood is surging, and he’s dizzy with the sensation of it all, and, yet, he can’t seem to bring himself to move. She’s looking up at him, a sort of amused, half smile on her lips. “It’s okay,” she whispers, before leaning up to kiss him. When she wraps her legs around him so her heels are pressing down on his buttocks and jerks her hips against his, whatever had been holding him back dissipates in an instant, and he’s pushing into her with sharp, erratic thrusts. And he knows he should go slower, knows that he should draw this out until she peaks, but she’s matching his every chaotic move and digging her nails into his back with the ferocity of a wolf.

Far too soon he spends inside her with a ridiculous grunt like he did when he was with his first woman at fifteen, a cheeky sailor’s daughter in Oldtown who had teased him endlessly about it afterwards. He’s almost as embarrassed as he was then, but Sansa doesn’t seem put out. She’s trailing delicate kisses along his collarbone and hasn’t unwrapped her arms and legs from around him.

_I should move,_ he thinks. _I’m probably crushing her._ But he isn’t entirely sure that his arms would support him if he tried, and he’s not about to relinquish the feeling of being inside her, or her skin against his, not yet.

It’s a tiny smear of blood on one of Sansa’s cheeks that snaps him out of his haze. “Oh, gods, did I hurt you?” he asks, brushing it away with his thumb.

She snorts a rather unladylike snort. “It’s _your_ blood, Garlan,” she chuckles, running a gentle hand over one of the long scratches now running down his back.

“Oh,” he answers stupidly, reaching up to fidget with his tangled curls. He finally rolls off her, but when the cold of the chamber washes over him, he wishes he hadn’t. “I—I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I should have—”

“Shush,” she interrupts, as she curls into his side, tucking her head into the crook his neck and draping an arm across his chest. “It was good. It was what I needed, and we have plenty of time to get it right.”

_She means for us to do this again._ He isn’t sure if that thought excites or frightens him. As much as he wants her—and, gods, does he want her—guilt over what they just did, over what he has just done to his brother’s wife, is already crashing over him and he can barely breathe under the weight of it.

“Don’t feel guilty.”

_Is she a bloody mind reader?_ “What?”

“I—I don’t think we should feel guilty,” she says, her voice small and uncertain, sounding nothing like the woman who had just been crashing her hips against his. “When I first realized I wanted to do—to do _this_ , I felt so guilty at first that I could hardly sleep. But I thought about it, really thought about it, and I think they’d want us to be happy, Garlan. They’d want us to find comfort; I know it.”

And he so badly wants to believe her. “How do you know?”

“If it was _us_ who had died from the plague instead, would you want _them_ to be happy?”

An image of Willas thrusting into Leonette, of his wife offering her sweet giggles and gentle touches to his brother flashes across his mind, and hot jealousy flares up in the pit of his stomach. The thought of any man touching Leonette but him is almost too much to bear, and he isn’t sure Sansa has the right of it.

But then he imagines Leonette like he had seen Sansa that first day in Highgarden, eyes full of tears, bowed in front of the Mother grieving for her lost husband, and Willas being followed by Sansa’s ghost through the empty halls Highgarden, straining under the pressure of doing it all alone, and he finds that vision, somehow, hurts even worse.

“Yes,” he finally manages to answer. “Yes, I would."


	2. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They’re both your home. It’s a lucky thing, to have two homes, I think. Even luckier if you saw the other one more often.”

For the tenth morning in a row, Sansa wakes well rested to the sound of Garlan’s soft breathing beside her. Once again, she has managed to sleep through the night without the ghosts of the past rousing her from sleep and leaving her shaking and screaming and sobbing into her pillows. Nights and mornings like these used to be a rarity before Garlan began sharing her bed six months ago.

But she knows her nightmares will never entirely cease. There are still nights she sees Cersei standing over her, golden ringlets like a lion’s mane and Stark blood dripping from her teeth. There are still nights she relives her husband’s death, can feel his weak grip on her arm, see his face covered in cracking, gray scales, hear his wheezing breaths and strangled last words, _goodbye, my love._ When she wakes on those nights, calling out for Willas, or her mother, or Arya, it takes Garlan only moments to wrap his strong arms around her and pull her into his chest, so he can whisper that she’s okay and promise no one will ever hurt her again.

Garlan suffers from nightmares too, though not quite so vocally as she does. Every now and then, he’ll call out in his sleep, or she’ll feel the cold drip of his tears through her hair and down her neck. He doesn’t like to talk about them, but she suspects he also sees the Lannisters, that he imagines Cersei laughing as his sister is executed for a crime she didn’t commit or smiling while she slips poison into his father’s drink. Maybe he relives Leonette’s death and the coughs and the scales. They’re so very much alike, she and Garlan—the unlikely, lonely pillars of nearly extinct houses—that she would not be surprised if their nightmares were the same as well.

There’s a sweet ache between her thighs and tiny little bruises dotting her hipbones. She had tied his wrists to the bedposts last night and straddled his lap to press down on him and roll her hips at a painfully slow pace. Every time he fought against the silk scarves, she’d only move slower, smiling and running her fingers gently over the ridges of his abdomen. _Sansa_ , he had begged, reaching for her almost frantically. When she finally freed him, he had grabbed at her hips, guiding her up and down until he was screaming her name instead. She loves when he says her name. There are so few people who call her Sansa anymore. She is Lady Tyrell or the Winter Rose or the Lady of Highgarden to all but Garlan and in Jon and Arya’s letters.

The stone floor is cold beneath her bare feet, so she pulls them back and rolls over toward Garlan instead. With a hand on either side of his chest, she props herself up to have a better look at his face. _He’s beautiful_ , she muses, as her finger delicately traces over an eyebrow and the bridge of his nose and his soft, slightly parted lips. His brothers and Margaery had taken very much after their mother. They had all been longer and more elegant than the next with high cheekbones and bright hazel eyes. Garlan is the only one who favored Mace instead. He is shorter than Willas and Loras were and stockier with thick arms and a strong chest. His eyes are darker and his face rounder and more masculine but no less handsome.

Sansa likes that he feels different, looks different, sounds different. She had been so frightened before their first night together that being with him would tear her back to memories of Willas. But nights (and mornings, and afternoons…) spent with Garlan mostly only serve to give her hope that maybe, just maybe, she can be truly happy again.

But there has also been guilt, creeping in from the back of her mind, telling her it is wrong to be with her husband’s brother like this. She tries to remind herself that Mother had been betrothed to Brandon Stark once, the uncle she never met. Maybe her mother had been in love with Brandon, just as she was with Willas? But Catelyn Tully had still fallen in love with Eddard Stark in the end, the younger brother, (Sansa _knows_ they loved each other, knows by the way they used to laugh and kiss when they thought no one was looking). She clings to that thought, that Mother had also loved two brothers, like a child at her mother’s skirts.

Just beneath the happiness and the small bouts of guilt, there is also a near constant undercurrent of fear. She wants to trust again, wants to believe that Garlan meant it when he said he wouldn’t leave her, that he’d stay as long as she’d have him, but she can tell the pressures of their situation are starting to wear on him.

The rumors are the worst. That Lady Tyrell is sleeping with Ser Garlan is the most poorly kept secret in the Reach, but it is not those whispers that bother him. There are some that claim she and Garlan were having an affair long before Willas and Leonette passed away and that Jonquil or Ned might be their uncle’s bastard child. Even the mere suggestion he had ever been unfaithful to Leonette makes Garlan furious, and he has declared more than once in the privacy of her solar that he wants to hunt down all those who dare imply it.

Sansa cares little about the rumors; she has heard enough of them during her life to understand how small nuggets of truth can transform into truly bizarre stories and how trying to stop them only fans the flames. People had once claimed her brother and his army transformed into wolves to defeat the Lannister forces at Whispering Wood and that her father was a traitor who found joy in Robert Baratheon’s death. When she first arrived in Highgarden, there were those who whispered that there was no way she was coming to Willas’ bed a maid because surely Joffrey or one of his men had defiled her. Even years later, there are still some that allege her little Ned is some Lannister henchman’s child instead of her late husband’s. But Garlan is not nearly as accustomed to these spurious tales as she is, and she fears the weight of it all will cause him to run and turn his back on her as so many others have done before him.

Garlan’s eyes blink open, his long eyelashes fluttering under the rays of the early morning sun. He stretches his arms over his head with a groan before resting them on Sansa’s hips. “Watching me sleep?”

Instead of answering, Sansa kisses him softly, needing to taste him, needing to convince him to stay. She moans a little when Garlan pulls her body closer and breaks the seal of her lips with his tongue. They kiss until they’re breathless, and soon Garlan’s hand is trailing down her stomach and underneath her nightshift to run one finger along her folds.

“Gods, Sansa, you’re already wet,” he groans, as he rolls them over so he’s on top of her. “You were dreaming of this, weren’t you?” he whispers in her ear. She opens her mouth to retort, _like you weren’t_ , but his thumb presses against that spot above her entrance as one of his fingers sinks into her and all she can do is gasp and arch her back.

_More_ , she almost demands, but a quiet knocking at the bedroom door interrupts her. “What the—?”

Garlan’s jaw clenches, and he reluctantly pulls away from her. “Who is it?” he shouts over his shoulder.

“Daddy? Daddy, it’s Elyn.”

“Oh, in the name of the Seven.” With that, they are practically leaping off the bed, scrambling for their robes and brushing down their hair with their fingers. “Just one second, love!” Garlan calls. He trips over the front of his robe on the way to the door, and Sansa can’t help but giggle. He throws her a little glare, before pulling it open. “What’s wrong, El? Are you okay?”

Little Elyn, with wide brown eyes filled with tears, walks cautiously into her chambers. Her eyes keep darting back and forth between her father and Sansa, and she wonders if this has something to do with her. “I—I—Jonquil called me _stupid_ and then she pulled my hair,” she finally wails.

“Oh dear,” Garlan mumbles, as Elyn wraps herself around his leg and sobs into the velvet of his robe. He pats her head gently, awkwardly and shoots Sansa a slightly panicked look. “Why would she say that, sweetling?”

“I told her that I wanted to marry Ser Allick.” The young knight was training to be their new Master-at-Arms, and even Sansa had to confess the blue-eyed boy with his silver armor and flowing blond hair was easy to admire. “And she told me that I was stupid. And that knights are all stupid and mean, but Ser Allick is so handsome and kind, and I—I—” She seems to give up then and goes back to sobbing.

Sansa knows she shouldn’t be smiling, but she’s seeing herself in that moment, just a girl declaring to her father that she is madly in love with Ser Waymar Royce and that Arya is awful for suggesting otherwise. Garlan seems lost as to how to proceed, and even she isn’t sure how he ought to handle it. Part of her wants to assure the girl that a beautiful, golden knight will come for her someday, like her mother used to insist when she came to her parents’ chambers crying. But the other part of her never wants this sweet girl to suffer the way she did, never wants her to be slapped in the face with reality of the world.

“Elyn, beautiful girl, Jonquil is only saying those things because she knows knights hurt me once,” Sansa explains. She had told her children as much as she felt she could about their mother’s past, better to hear it from her than the gossips.

“Knights— _knights_ hurt you? But—but knights are supposed to protect the innocent. They’re supposed to—”

“Yes, dear, but not all knights do what they’re supposed to do. You should never trust someone just because they are knight; kindness can be found in even the most unusual places,” she says, recalling Willas leaning on his cane and holding out his hand to her, and Tyrion the Imp calling off the Kingsguard, and drunken Ser Dontos promising to help her escape…

“But—but are all knights evil?” The poor girl looks terrified as she asks, as if Sansa’s answer is about to send her entire world tumbling down around her.

“Oh no, certainly not,” Sansa assures her, smiling brightly and running a hand through Elyn’s soft, blonde curls. “Look at your father. He’s a knight, and he’s the most gallant man in all of Westeros, isn’t he?”

Elyn grins at that and hugs Garlan’s leg even tighter. “He is. Garlan the Gallant! He’s a great knight, just like Ser Allick!”

Sansa chuckles and kneels down in front of her niece. “One day it will be time for you to get married. It may be to a great knight or a powerful lord, but none of that really matters. All that matters is that they are gentle, brave, and good, just like your father. And I promise you that he will scour every corner of Westeros to find someone worthy of you.”

The tears have dried on the girl’s cheeks by the time Sansa finishes speaking. “That’s right, sweetling. Only the best for my gorgeous daughter,” Garlan agrees, and while Sansa is still looking at Elyn, she can hear the smile on his face.

“Well, I’m going to go tell Jonquil that!” Elyn exclaims triumphantly, skipping away from them, considerably happier than when she had arrived.

“ _Daughters_ ,” Garlan sighs, rubbing his temples. “And who is this bloody _Ser Allick_? And is it okay if I kill him?”

Sansa snorts. “He’s training to be our future Master-at-Arms, and he’s a sweet lad, harmless enough. I’d prefer if you didn’t go around killing the household staff, might send the wrong message.”

Garlan rolls his eyes. “Fine then, but if he lays one pretty, knightly hand on my daughter—”

Sansa only laughs and silences him with a kiss. “Deep breaths, dear. You have a number of years yet before you have start worrying about that, I think.”

“Gods be good, I hope so,” he says, as he wraps his arms around her waist and buries his face in her neck. “Now, where were we?”

And as much as she wants to pick up right where they left off, her handmaiden will be at the door any second to dress her for the day, and the poor girl hasn’t been able to stop stuttering around her since the last time she walked in on them. “We were about to start getting ready for the day, I think,” Sansa answers, kissing him one last time. “There will be plenty of time to finish all that tonight.”

“You torture me, Lady Stark,” he says, holding his hands over his heart. “Just know that I’ll spend the entire day coming up with things I want to do to you tonight.”

Sansa smirks and pushes him gently out of the room. “I look forward to seeing what you come up with, Ser Garlan.”

 

* * *

 

Ever since the Dragon Queen’s pronouncement that the inheritance laws would change so that the eldest child, whether male or female, would inherit, Sansa finds herself practically drowning in anxious letters from her subjects. Today she has to soothe the fears of the Tarly sisters and their brother Dickon, the current Lord of Horn Hill.

She’s almost to her solar where they are waiting when a strong arm pulls her abruptly into a broom closet. “What in the—?”

“I simply couldn’t wait all day,” her captor purrs against her skin.

“Garlan,” she giggles, because she knows it’s him, knows his smell (soap and pine), knows his lips (warm and wet against the line of her jaw and down her neck), and knows his touch (reverent yet firm on her waist). “The Tarlys are just down the hall.”

“Well, you’ll just have to be quiet then,” Garlan says, his hands already up her skirts, brushing his fingers over her thighs and dragging down her smallclothes. “Though I will sorely miss those howls you like to make when I touch you like—”

“ _Ah_ ,” Sansa gasps, when he runs his fingers over her just like he had that morning. “Garlan, we—”

“ _Shh_ , you’re the Lady of Highgarden, remember? You can do whatever you please.”

“I like the sound of that,” Sansa confesses, a playful smirk on her lips that Garlan won’t be able to see in the darkness. Before she can convince herself that this is insanity and no way for a true lady to conduct herself, she turns, braces her arms against the wall, and dares Garlan to “try and make me howl.”

Garlan groans just a little too loud at that, and she can hear him fumbling with the laces of his breeches behind her. “You wicked creature,” he teases, as he hikes up her skirt. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Moments later, her skirts are tucked over her bottom. One of Garlan’s hand is teasing her nipple through the thin silk of her dress and the other is holding her steady as he thrusts into her sex from behind. With each stroke, it becomes more and more difficult for her not to cry out, because he’s hitting _that_ spot he almost always hits when he takes her like this ( _like a wolf_ , she had said once). It sends bursts of pleasure through her entire body, from the tips of her curling toes to roots of her hair, and makes her knees feel like jelly beneath her. Every inch of her is shaking with the feeling, and she isn’t sure she can take it much longer, so she presses her cheek to his and whimpers, “Faster. _Please._ ”

With a low growl from the back of his throat, he obeys. Just as she’s about to peak, she feels his hand abandon her breast and disappear under her skirt to touch her _there_ again. Desperately, she bites down on her wrist hard enough to draw blood, but it does little to stifle the shout she lets out, as she finds her release hard and fast. Garlan spends only moments later, panting over her shoulder. Thankfully, his arms are still wrapped tightly around her, or she’s sure her knees would’ve given out from underneath her.

“See, now wasn’t that worth it?”

Sansa, though still trembling, is already pulling up her smallclothes and trying to smooth out the folds of her skirts. _Yes, absolutely yes_ , she wants to say. “You better hope the Tarlys didn’t hear that,” she says instead.

“Let them think whatever they want to think.” And she sincerely hopes he means that, hopes that he’s finally been able to shake off the rumors about them.

He kisses her again, his sturdy arms pinning her against the wall. “I’ll see you tonight,” she murmurs against his lips. “But I really must be going.”

“As my lady commands,” he relents, giving her just enough space to break away and begin her dash down the hallway to her meeting. She tries to flatten her hair, tries to brush out the wrinkles of her skirt, and talk as if nothing out of the ordinary just happened, but judging by the way the oldest Tarly girl is smirking at her, she isn’t doing a very good job of it.

 

* * *

 

 

The day goes significantly downhill after her tryst with Garlan in the broom closet. The Tarlys still don't seem convinced that the new law only refers to Dickon’s heirs, Lord Vyrwel is obstinate that his son still inherit over his three older daughters, Jonquil and Elyn got into yet another fight, and the cook accidentally put salt instead of sugar in the blueberry pudding at dinner. When she finally pushes open the door of her chambers, all she wants is to collapse into Garlan’s arms and forget about it all.

“You would not believe what Lord Vyrwel called me today—” The look on Garlan’s face—jaw tight, eyebrows furrowed—stops her short. He’s sitting by the fire with a pile of open letters scattered on the small table in front of him.

“What are these?” He holds one up and looks at her as if she has just slapped him. Though she certainly can’t read the words from the doorway, she knows exactly what it is that he holds in his hand.

“How did you find those?”

“Ah, so you _were_ hiding them from me then,” he sighs, tossing the parchment aside. He stands and starts to pace in front of the flames. “The ink ran out. I was looking for more and thought there might be some in your chest. I had no idea—I didn’t expect—”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Oh, so you don’t have a chest full of marriage proposals then?” he counters, and she’s never heard his voice sound so angry, so hurt. The sound of it makes her stomach tie itself into knots. “What exactly are these then?”

Her first instinct is to apologize and assure him they mean nothing. But she can’t lie to him, and she is done apologizing for things that aren’t her fault. “You can’t honestly be surprised, Garlan,” she says, careful to keep her voice calm. “I’m the Lady of Highgarden and a Princess of the North. I’m a woman with a significant fortune and even more significant connections across the continent. With my hand comes power. The letters started coming about a month after Willas died, and the only thing that surprised me about them was that they didn’t come sooner.”

“A month? These—these bastards started seeking your hand a _month_ after my brother died?” he shouts.

“I am a young widow with a tremendous amount of power and two children to raise, Garlan; no one expected me to stay unmarried this long.”

“And what about you?” he snaps. “Do you want to get married again? Is that why you still have these?”

_Yes_ , she thinks. _I want to marry again. I want more children. I want to have a family as large as the one I grew up in. I want to fall in love and be loved. I want all of that with you._ But she can’t bring herself to say the words, she never can. “Before you came along, Garlan, I was lonely. I wanted my kids to have a father figure. I wanted to have more children, and I wanted to be happy with someone again. And I don’t think any of that is wrong.”

A heavy silence falls between them. Garlan starts fidgeting with his curls, as he always does when he is nervous or doesn’t know what to say. He looks down at the letters again, but she says nothing, waiting for him to make the next move.

“There’s a letter from the Dragon Queen in here, suggesting you marry her nephew Aegon,” he finally speaks, tapping his finger on the table. “She wanted you to be the Princess of Dragonstone. Your children with him would have been the heirs to the Iron Throne.”

“Would have been, had I accepted,” she says. “But now Valena Toland’s children will be the heirs. They make a nice match.”

“You turned down the Queen?”

Sansa sighs and collapses into her armchair. “I was never ambitious, Garlan. I wanted to be Queen once, as a girl, wanted to see my firstborn son on the Iron Throne. But that was only because I fancied myself in love with that little monster Joffrey, not because I desired power. I married Willas because I wanted to be safe, because I would have done nearly anything to get away from the Lannisters, not because I wanted to be the Lady of Highgarden. I never wanted power over others, just power over myself. I found that here, and I was not about to give it up to be a breed mare for the Targaryens. And I was not about to leave my children, not for anything in the world.”

“He might have loved you. He might have let them come with you.”

“He might have. I suppose I’ll never know, and, honestly, I don’t care.”

“And the other letters?”

“I might have accepted one of them eventually. Maybe one of the Reach lords, maybe even one back North—”

“ _Back North_?” he exclaims, and she can hear the quiver of fear in his voice. “You’re going to leave the Reach?”

“I have no plans to leave anytime soon; Ned and Jonquil are still so young. But I won’t lie to you, Garlan, I want to marry again someday,” _I want you_ , she leaves unspoken, “Surely you’ve thought about remarrying?”

The only answer he offers her is a noncommittal shake of his head. He bites his lip and turns back to look at the letters again. “I’m sorry for yelling. It wasn’t my place. I’ll help you put all these back.”

She had known all along they couldn’t go on living in the bubble they had created for themselves. Certain things are expected of her, and of him, as much as they might have liked to pretend otherwise. There is no way she could have put off this day forever, but this is not the reaction from him she had hoped for when it finally came. She had wanted him to throw the letters in the fire and sweep her into her arms and ask her to be his wife. It was a stupid, romantic notion, like the ones she had been prone to as a girl, but the silliness of it doesn’t make his actual response hurt any less.

“Garlan—”

“It’s okay, Sansa, really,” he insists, but he won’t meet her eyes. “Let’s just go to sleep.” And for the first time since he started sharing her chambers, they sleep with their backs turned to each other on opposite sides of the bed.

 

* * *

 

“—but Bael the Bard didn’t really want just a flower. When the Lord of Winterfell woke the next morning, he walked into his beloved daughter’s room to find just a single winter rose there on her pillow.”

Elyn and Leonora gasp. “Did Bael kidnap her, Aunt Sansa?” Elyn asks, as she clutches tightly to Ned’s hand.

“I’m afraid so, Elyn,” Sansa says, making her face very serious even though she’s trying not to smile. She loves having the children gathered around her like this, excitedly calling out questions and waiting eagerly for the next part of the story.

“How do winter roses grow in the North if it’s all covered in snow?” Jonquil pipes in.

“ _That_ has nothing to do with the story,” Elyn says, pouting, before Sansa can answer. “Tell us what happens to the daughter!”

“I asked a question,” Jonquil spits back. “I’m _Northern_ , and I want to know.”

_I’m Northern_. Her daughter’s retort makes her smile like a fool because she so badly wants her children to be proud of both their Southern _and_ Northern roots, even if they’ve never been more than a day’s ride from Highgarden.

“The North is not always covered in snow,” Sansa explains. “And most of the winter roses are grown in greenhouses that are specially made to be just the right temperature for the flowers to thrive. But even in the snow, when the winds of winter are blowing, some blooms still manage grow strong and proud. That’s the way of North.” Garlan opens the door, as she’s speaking, and she is surprised to look up and find him smiling at her.

“Do you miss it, Aunt Sansa?” Leonora asks.

“All the time,” Sansa says. “But this is my home now, and I love it almost as much as I love you all.”

“I think it’s time for you lot to get to bed; I don’t want to hear any whining when you have to get up early to greet our guests in the morning,” Garlan says, before the children can ask any more questions. “Elsa will see you back to your rooms.”

Elsa, who reminds Sansa painfully of Old Nan sometimes, begins shooing the children to their feet, waving off their protests and insistence that they’re not tired. Elyn stomps her feet and points out that Sansa didn’t finish the story of the wicked Bael the Bard. “I’ll finish the entire tale tomorrow night, sweetling.” With that promise, she and Garlan are left alone. She has not seen him since he woke and promptly left her chambers that morning, and she fears what he is about to say.

“You light up when you talk about the North, you know,” he begins. “Really, you do. I’ve never seen you more beautiful than when you are talking about your home.”

“This is my home,” she corrects quietly.

“They’re both your home. It’s a lucky thing, to have two homes, I think. Even luckier if you saw the other one more often.”

“It would be nice,” she confesses, “to see Winterfell again.” The letters she receives from Jon detailing the rebuilding process, and how Rickon gets better with each day, and how his newborn babe looks just like Arya tug at her heart, and she wishes she could see all of it with her own eyes. But she has a duty to Highgarden and the Reach and its people. And Father always taught her the importance of duty.

“Then go,” Garlan says. “Your sister is due in two weeks from Braavos, yes? When she leaves here for the North, go with her.”

She’s shocked by the suggestion and torn about how to take it. _Is he trying to make me happy? Or is he trying to get rid of me? Have the letters changed something between us?_ “But I’m—Garlan, I’m the Lady of Highgarden, Warden of the Reach. And the children—”

“Sansa, I think I can manage to watch the place for a few months without burning it down,” Garlan laughs. “And you should take Jonquil and Ned with you. They ought to see the place where their mother grew up. Like Jonquil said, they’re just as much children of the North as the Reach.”

The pounding of her heart at the very thought of seeing Winterfell again is enough to convince her this isn’t a proposition she’ll be able to turn down. “Yes, thank you, you’re right, I—I think I’ll go then.” The smile she offers him is genuine, but there’s an ugly little voice nagging at the back of her mind, telling her that he just wants time away from her. Maybe he even means for her to do what they spoke of last night and marry a Northern lord and never come back.

“Garlan, this is all wonderful, but about last night—”

“I was wrong,” he cuts in. He kneels down in front of her chair and takes one of her hands in his own to place a delicate kiss over her knuckles. “It just caught me off guard, is all. I’ve always acted like a fool when I’m jealous.”

“You were jealous, huh?”

“Oh, yes,” he chuckles, but he grips her hand tighter and his expression grows more serious. “I don’t want to lose you, Sansa.”

“I don’t want to lose you either, Garlan.”

“There! Then it’s settled. No losing will occur.”

“It’s settled,” she agrees. But even in her joy over the prospect of seeing Winterfell again and the feeling of Garlan’s arms wrapping around her body to carry her to bed, there’s still an uneasiness, an uncertainty about her future threatening to ruin it all.

 

* * *

 

A light rain is falling, matting down her hair, which she has chosen to wear free and flowing down her back in the Northern fashion in honor of the trip she is finally about to make. She glances around the place she has made her home, and even under the dark clouds and shrouded in the early morning fog, Highgarden is still beautiful. The water droplets on the red and yellow and pink roses surrounding her only seem to make them more lovely, and she thinks, _yes, I will miss this place._

Her entire body aches, as she extends to straighten out her mare’s saddle. But it is a pleasant sort of pain. Every twinge pulls her back to memories of last night, her final night with Garlan for many months. They were together three times, and by the morning she was sure they had kissed every inch of each other’s skin.

“You look tired, sister,” Arya observes casually enough, but there’s an amused half-smile playing on her lips. “I hope the ride won’t prove too arduous for you.”

“I’m a better rider than I was in my youth,” Sansa answers. “And I’m not tired at all, but thank you for your concern.”

“Hah!” Arya exclaims. “You put us down the hall from you, remember? If the noises you were making last night, _and_ this morning for that matter, are anything to go by, you would have to be more than human not to be exhausted. You put even my blacksmith knight and me to shame. I’m proud, sweet sister.”

Sansa blushes a deep, hot crimson at that and wonders know how she’s ever going to be able to look Gendry in the eyes again. “We were saying goodbye,” is all she can manage in response.

“It sounded like a proper goodbye to me.”

“What did?” Garlan asks when he walks over with a teary-eyed Elyn balanced on his shoulders. Raindrops are clinging to his dark curls and his smile is bright despite the tears pooling in the corners of his eyes, and Sansa can’t help thinking that he is just as lovely as Highgarden and, _yes, I’ll miss him too._

“Oh, nothing, my sister is just teasing me. It seems we will never grow out of some habits,” Sansa says, giving Arya a warning glare.

“Indeed. Well, I’ll just let you two say goodbye, _again_.” Arya reaches out and pulls Elyn from Garlan’s shoulders on to her tall, black stallion. Their wild, world-traveling Aunt Arya fascinated all of the children, even proper little Elyn. The lot of them had not stopped assailing her with questions since she arrived two weeks ago, and Jonquil had promptly and proudly declared Aunt Arya her hero the moment she saw her practicing in the yard with Needle.

“So, you’re leaving,” Garlan sighs. “It won’t feel right here without you. Loras already asked me when you’re coming back.”

“Tell him soon,” she says. She cups his cheeks and touches her lips chastely to his. “I’ll be back soon enough. It’s only a few months, after all. When I’m back, I’m sure it will feel like I never even left.”

He pulls her into him, surrounding her with his arms and fisting a handful of her wet, copper hair. “I hope so,” he whispers to the top of her head. “Sansa, I was thinking—I was thinking that perhaps you could tell Jon and Arya to plan a visit to Highgarden sometime soon.”

Sansa bends back to look him in the eyes. “Why? Jon is still very busy with the rebuilding, and Rickon is—”

“I think they would make time to see our wedding, don’t you?”

The noise she makes is something between a gasp and shriek, and she can feel the entire party abandon their work and conversations to focus their eyes on her, but she can’t bring herself to care because, “Did you—are you—did you just ask me to marry you?”

The tears in the corners of his eyes are now streaming down his cheeks and mixing with the raindrops stuck to his beard. “I’m done being scared. I think it’s time for us to be happy again. And those damn letters—”

“Burn them,” Sansa insists. “Burn them all. I don’t want them; I want _you_.” With that she throws herself on him, wrapping her arms around his neck and crying her own joyous tears into his shoulder. “I only want you.”

“Promise me you’ll come back,” he whispers fiercely in her ear. “I love you, Sansa. I need you to promise you’ll come back.”

She’s reluctant to make promise these days; she’s seen so many of them broken. _Words are wind_ , she recalls Father saying once, and she knows it’s the truth. And even in her happiness, she can’t deny that she’s afraid, can’t deny that this feels almost as wrong as it feels right. When she closes her eyes, she can see Willas smiling at her and draping the green and gold cloak around her shoulders, and she can see Cersei and Joffrey, blood on their hands, reaching out to take it all away from her.

But she can’t let herself be ruled by the past or her fears, not anymore. So she leans her head back to meet his eyes again. “This is my home too, Garlan. The children, Highgarden, _you_ … I love you, and I’ll always come home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I like to write unusual pairings like this one, so if you have any suggestions, let me know!


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